Red Alert

 

I have a single red shirt in my closet. I only put it on when all my other shirts are dirty or if I feel a certain way on a warm, sunny morning. This time, I put it on because it was the only one within my reach. The bus conductor was yelling gibberish into my ears with a heavy Kisii accent. He was saying something about how I had kept them waiting for one hour at the stage, yet my watch told me I was only two minutes late. It sounded almost as if he was crying. To save him his tears and vocal chords, I grabbed the closest shirt and left with my luggage. I realised later it was a red shirt.

Childhood was fun before the advent of flat screen TVs and smart phones. We lived every moment to the fullest. Unlike these cerelac babies, we had hands-on experience with life. Our knees and feet were moulded into hard pads due to the continuous interaction with the coarse ground. Back then, when we did something, we genuinely loved it. We would pour our hearts out to derive pleasure from every little activity we ventured in. A home devoid of opulent and fancy things would be made lively by the cacophony of laughter from playing children. 

Of course there was always a periodic refrain from a heckling mother. There was always that one kid who would dip their muddy hands in the porridge, or do a summersault in a sufuria of soup. In such cases, sandals would be wielded and shrieks would be heard from a mile away.

One of the most pleasurable activities was orchestrating fights between creatures. Yeah, creatures. Animals, insects, humans, plants. We would waylay two unsuspecting ants and force them into clasping their fangs. Bets were placed and we would chear the vigorous wrestle until either one ended up incapacitated or dead. We loved bullfights, cockfights and the clanging sound that ensued as rams knocked the mucus out of each others' heads.

 
Just to mention, we had a daring sense of adventure. We would stretch our imagination to its limit and live it's every figment. My old man was a lover of exotic animals and ornamental birds. He had a big black turkey. We had watched cockfights until it wasn't fun anymore. We had to try something new. 

So one day, we decided to challenge Opong' tomuol, the beholder of cockfighting blackbelt, to a derby with Mbata, the Turkey. We lured the cock into the Turkey's cage and sat on an elevated tree stump, with a few revellers from the hood. Lots were cast and the derby began. When the wattle of the turkey turned  pitch red and the snood became fully tumescent, we knew we were going to have the time of our lives. 

The cock puffed up it's feathers and gave a bombastic side eye. Jump! Kicks! Cackles! An hour later, the cock lay stationary on the ground with streaks of blood on its nose. The turkey was goobling feebly yet with an aura of dominance. He had successfully dispatched Opong' tomuol to Sayun.

 
Evening was fast approaching and soon, my folks would be home. Every little piece of evidence had to be destroyed. The ring was cleaned of all feathers and the cock carried delicately to a dark corner of the chicken coop. Imagine the shock that hit my mother when she discovered the untimely demise of her only cock. Better still, imagine my astonishment when I realized a healthy cock could just decide to die over night. However, there was a little discrepancy. The visual autopsy conducted by my mother ruled out the possibility of a natural death. It died while struggling and breathing heavily. Otieno, the skinny malnourished neighborhood boy with streaks of mucus criss-crossing his face,who had lost his bet during the derby, vented his misery to cement my mother's findings. Let me tell you Maina...... I slept hungry as others chewed the drumsticks of the meal I had 'prepared.'

 
Let's now come back to my red shirt. When I first put on a red shirt, I was naive. I had just finished gulping my 'agwata' of uji for breakfast and was looking for somewhere to release the energy. Stark naked, I came across a red shirt and put it on. On me, it looked like a kaftan, with one side of the shoulders sagging. I met 'Mbata' at a corner. A red shirt and a Turkey, bad day at the office. If it's true people scream from their lungs, I would have suffocated. I still have the marks of the beast from that ordeal. Mbata was later slaughtered, and I was tempted to eat the snood.

So here I was, with my vogue traveling bag and man bag that I had carried as tools of trade in my pending assassination attempts of village girls. And my red shirt. I opened the gate and the first thing I saw was a new 'Mbata'. It puffed it's feathers and extended its snood. I realized there and then that I had not healed from my childhood trauma. I ponderously closed the gate and headed back to where I had come from. I dropped my bag at a nearby shop and engaged some boda boda guys in small talk. All I had to do was to interject ' Hii serikali ya hasora.....' The guys were impressed by how outgoing and accommodative I was towards people. If only they knew...

An hour later, my 7-year old niece arrived home from school. She grabbed my arm and pulled me home, with anticipation of seeing what I had brought from the city. I tried to warn her of the danger she was about to expose herself to but she didn't listen. The ' kitakuramba' banger played in my mind as I followed closely behind her. She flung the gate open. 'Mbata' was there all puffed up and ready to strike. Just as I was about to clutch her in my arms and run away, she loosened herself and went towards the beast. She approached and caressed it's back. With my mouth, I watched as it miraculously shrank and squatted, in surrender. These Gen Z kids really had very little things to worry about in life.

I am still working on getting over my 'Mbata' phobia. My therapist ' niece' has prescribed periodic exposure to the beast with a little caressing, and eye contact. Taking this photo was undoubtedly a milestone in my journey to overcome Mbata PTSD. However, I wonder which of our childhood escapades can still be practised. Cocks no longer mean male chicken, bulls don't lock horns, rams are too friendly and Mbata has become docile. It's sad that the generations to come will never experience some of these things.